RPlog:An Old Score with Solo
Just coming out of hyperspace, Ridge Archilles flips a few switches and presses a few buttons, still getting back into the swing of things since his time as Chandrila's head non-treacherous rebel. Checking over the rest of his controls and computers, he begins that for which he'd been assigned. Recon of Corellia, a planet now controlled by Imperials. He had been switched from Falcon 4 to Falcon 7, and was now a recon pilot for his beloved squadron. Now set and ready to roll, he waits for the other pilots to come through hyperspace to join the little party. Dropping out of hyperspace, the unkempt Millennium Falcon appears amidst the massive Imperial fleet. Taking a look out the view port Han says nothing, his eyes growing slightly at the size of the SSD. Turning his head as Chewie roars and shakes a first, Han chuckles, flipping on his com systems and preparing for the battle the would soon commence. It had only been a day since his return from the planet, though with the guarentee of action, this trip was sure to have a more pleasent outcome than the last. **click** Static screaches through the cockpit for a moment, hands flying towards the console before they settle once again. "Millennium Falcon, checking in." The conversation that Han had had with the officer on board the Crusader had been brief, to say the least, and his knowledge of the mission at hand was limited. Thoughts clouded by his anger at the Imperial movements on Corellia, Han heads into battle. Gasping as she finds herself lurched out of hyperspace, Andra finds herself momentarily stunned as she recovers from the jump; the feeling is one she's yet to be accustomed to, though she hopes the feeling will fade soon. Her hands, however, are at ease - resting easily on the stick - and she takes a few moments to gather her composure and check her controls and computers, shaking her head as she does so. She has some experience in a A-Wing...not that it means much. "Falcon 8, here. So what now?" Kieran feels a slight shudder as his compact A-wing fighter drops out of hyperspace. A quick look to his side confirms the presence of his wingmates, and a glance to his status displays indicates all systems green. He exhales softly, adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he looks through his plasteel cockpit at the nearby planet, and the small, distant wedge-shaped objects orbiting it. Corellia. He steeled his nerves and wrapped his hand around his control stick, his gaze hardening as he eyes the Imperial signatures in his sensor readouts. "Falcon 3, standing by." The Imperator Mark II-class Star Destroyer 'Conqueror' picked up the incoming rebel craft almost immediately. Warning lights flashed on display consoles and klaxons roared. Captain Antal Bittor Brencis, commanding officer of the Conqueror, ordered a dispatch of fighters to intercept and destroy the rebel invaders. A quick tactical analysis, however, showed it was nothing more than a recon; still, the Imperials were not about to let the rebels just barge on in and get away with whatever crimes they are committing. The captain asked a favor of a certain Imperial officer who was onboard, the legendary war horse himself, Danik Kreldin, to assist the fighters, as a large portion of the Conqueror's pilot roster were all green. Danik, despite being in his fifties, was still a capable of a pilot as ever, and respected amongst the ranks of the Empire. He didn't even get himself into a flight-suit; there was simply no time. He would just have to rely on his Scimitar's life support systems and his skills to stay alive. Out from the belly of the massive Star Destroyer came several fighters, with one craft at the front - that was Dark Sword 1, piloted by noneother than Danik Kreldin. "War Shrike, Lightning, all fighters follow me. This is only a recon, so don't expect much resistance, but don't get lazy, either," he said into the radio. Scanners picked up several familiar craft from Falcon Squadron, and one unique signature. The Millenium Falcon. Kreldin had crossed paths with that vessel before; Hoth, Endor, and many other battles throughout his thirty-six year military career. "Be careful of that Corellian transport. It may not look like much, but it's been responsible for more Imperial casaulties than you can imagine. Stick close to me and we'll get through this." The Imperial fighters moved through space at top speed, ready to intercept the rebel fighters. Kieran curses softly at himself, as his fingers errantly punch the shield controls one too many times. Steadying his hand and shaking his head, he reactivates his shields and begins muttering to himself, too softly for the voice pickup in his helmet to recieve. 'Way to go there, laserbrain. This isn't a jaunt near Commenor in a Z-95, you know... you make stupid mistakes like that and some opportunistic Imp won't hesitate to blow you away.' Ridge smiles with small, twisted satisfaction as the computer gives the heads up of oncoming fighters. "Now that's something I'm glad to hear," he mutters to himself, alone in the cockpit. Ridge makes final check at all his switches and knobs, wanting nothing to go wrong against the upcoming fight. He issues a quick command to the other recon ships over the radio. *click* "This is Falcon 7. Falcon 8, form up on my right, Falcon 3, on my left. Solo... eh.. blow them up. Over." As he clicks off the radio, he waits for the others to form. Double checking his computers, Solo looks to Chewie, a grin spread from ear to ear. It had been entirely too long since his last encounter with Imperials, and he had missed taking the Falcon into battle, even if it did appear as though it would fall apart at any moment. Easing the ship forward, Han allows room for those in Falcon squadron to form, moving to his coms once again. **click** "Let's give 'em hell boys." The sound of Chewbacca can be heard in the background as he takes his seats as gunner. "Copy that, sir," Andra says, distracted enough to turn off her shields by accident as she rushes through her preparations. "Oops, didn't mean to do that," she covers quickly, switching her shields back on before checking her position and swerving into position to the right of the Falcon 8; her hands grip the stick tightly, a strange pale green from the light of the computer screens. "Falcon 8, in position." His fingers twitching around his control stick, Kieran nods, even though there's no one else to see it. His fingers twitching around his control stick, he once again checks his monitor as he swings into position. "Falcon 3, in position and ready." The battle had been joined. The Imperial fighter squadrons, led by Danik Kreldin, engaged the rebel craft of Falcon Squadron and the lone Corellian transport. Green laser blasts and red laser blasts, they all seemed to mix together to create what one observor might consider to be a beautiful fireworks display. But, with each blast, one life ended or came closer to ending. Danik had not survived thirty-six years of constant warfare without some brain; and right now that brain was telling him not to engage the Millienium Falcon. Sure, the now-dead Lord Vader may have thrown him and his comrades at the ship in the past, but this was now, and Danik was in command. Falcon Squadron would be his target. One such craft flew into his targetting screen, Falcon 8. He was coming at the A-wing in a head-on position; a lock-on was acquired, and with the press of a button a single missile ejected itself from its pod and honed in on the rebel A-wing. Immediately afterwards the Scimitar rolled starboard to avoid a collision with the A-wing, and to regain its bearings. Adrenaline finally begins to rush through Han's veins as the fighters clash, turbolasters and missiles streaking through the sky towards fighters on either end. Jerking his head to the right as a seemingly gutsy pilot charges Falcon sqaudron head on. Pulling the Falcon up sharply he pushes the YT-1300 harder than he had in months in an attempt to catch the MKII, waiting for several moments before firing concussion missiles of his own into the vastness of space. Andra's jaw drops when she sees the incoming missle. "Falcon 8, under fire and freaking out!" she shouts, even while she jerks her A-wing into a fast roll, letting her instincts take over for the moment. Oh yes, here was her thrill of flying, of pulling insane stunts - and for once, they were necessary! Imagine that, she thinks, and even manages a weak smirks at the frown her mother would have had if she had seen her daughter's stunt. She shudders slightly as she sees the missile barrel past her - so close! - and heaves a sigh in relief; it'd be a bit early to be dying on the job, and besides, there was a wrench waiting back home for her, and she'd be damned if she died without buying it. Kieran's heart jumps into his throat as he watches Falcon 8 narrowly evade the missle screaming from the enemy Scimitar. His eyes narrow as he maneuvers his craft on an attack vector, attempting to line his weapons up on the lumbering Scimitar assault fighter. 'Come on, come on...' he mutters, his eye fixated on his targeting reticle, as he waited for it to give the lock-on alert. Still nothing.. still nothing.... there! The reticle lit up green with an insistent beep, and Kieran obligingly squeezed the trigger, sending a flurry of orange laser bolts at the larger craft. SF-7161 poses: The missile shot was trashed. The wily A-wing pilot managed to avoid it literally at the last second - so damn close. Danik blamed it on old age. "War Shrike 3, deal with this one - I'm switching targets," Danik said into his radio. He heard the affirmative click, but before Kreldin could pick out another target he found himself the victim of several enemy attacks simentaneously. One, from the Millenium Falcon, a missile that narrowly misses over his portside solar panel, and a series of laser blasts from Falcon 3, which the Imperial pilot doved under. Pulling back on his throttle, the Scimitar nosed up and flipped around, coming up directly behind the A-wing which had just assaulted him. His eyes looked at his targetting computer, which showed the aiming reticle zooming in on the A-wing and announcing a lock-on. Squeezing down upon the trigger, a single concussion missile ejected from the missile pod and honed in on Falcon 3. Han curses under his breath, the opposite reaction than Chewbacca who roars feriously. There were few pilots that could manuever as well as this one could, and while the impending threat of the other TIE's was growing, his persuit on Kreldin had become personal. Pulling the ship into a roll to match the movements of the scimitar, he waits momentarily before firing off another shot of concussion missiles. Now on alert, Andra can only watch as the other ships fire and miss, before her fellow Falcon takes damage from the attack and the famed Millenium Falcon...misses; she can't tell exactly what's going on, but it doesn't look all that wonderful right now. "Time to try out this baby," she mutters under her breath - would it be a bad idea to acknowledge her inexperience with A-Wing weapons systems right now? No time, she decides as she adjusts her position before, with a shaky hand and a few typed, sends a missle to the ship that had fired on her first. Kieran watches in horror as the big Scimitar suddenly flips and spits a concussion missle at him. He hesitates for a split second... and that split second costs him. His ship heaves with a sickening lurch as the missle strikes his ship. Smoke and sparks erupt in his cockpit as several alarms scream in his ears and many of his previously green monitor lights suddenly flash an angry red. Panic and rage roil together in the big pilot's mind as his ship rolls, barely under control, towards the Scimitar. A quick glance at his controls confirms that, while his shields are gone and his hull is damaged, he still has power to weapons and targeting systems. He wrenches the stick back, pointing his nose back up towards the Scimitar and again lines his reticle up on the surprisingly maneuverable ship. 'Didn't know those damned lumbering things could be so manueverable,' he muttered. Again, his reticle blinked with a green light, and again he squeezed off a burst of laser fire at the Imperial ship. "Nice shot, sir!" exclaimed one of the green pilots in War Shrike squadron, who was flying to Kreldin's side as a temporary wingmate. It was indeed a nice shot; sensors indicated that the shot ripped the shields right off the A-wing and caused it some massive damage. Combing some of his hair back with his hand, Danik offered only a grin. However, before he could finish the X-wing off for good, the Millenium Falcon came to save the day; a single missile screamed overhead, causing Danik to maneuver out of the way instinctly. Although the missile missed, it raised some concerns within Danik. He was certainly a popular target tonight. Nevertheless, the Imperial war horse wasn't about to turn tail; the damaged X-wing was still in his scopes, but it wouldn't be for much longer. Indeed, not much longer, as another missile misses along his starboard side - this time from the A-wing he first targeted, who was obviously trying to enact some revenge and save his partner. But maybe Falcon 3 didn't need saving? It was turning around and moving into attack position; immediately thereafter laser blasts splashed against the space near his Scimitar, though ultimately they did not connect with his fighter. Kreldin didn't even bother to maneuver; he kept his course steady, a lock-on already acquired, and once more a missile found its way towards Falcon 3. From the depths of hyperspace, a single Mantaray emerges, weapons already hot and its pilot obviously pumped for the action, executing a few quick barrel rolls as he streaks in the direction of the recon flight gone awry. "Falcon flight, this is Eagle One, Deuce aboard. I was all set to take this bird home, a personal delivery for a personal friend, and here I heard my old mates were getting into snooping without me. How bout that." Captain Mora Rodriga smirks in his cockpit, knowing what his pilots are thinking: 'So, the old man decided to see some time in a smallbird one last time. Wonder if he's rusty.' He chuckles at the thought of being referred to as 'the old man,' which he knows he is by much of his crew. He is hardly old at 31 years of age and has only advanced as far as he has thanks to the academy, the survival rates in this war, and a bizarre circumstance that resulted in several command holes during a field mission. Rodriga, formerly a starfighter ace but indeed getting rusty after a fair time away, scans his targets. Familiar transponders. "Kreldin," Mora starts into the public channel, "Rodriga. Won't you speak up so I can shoot you down again?" With a half-grimace-half-grin, the Corellian Captain salutes his homeworld out the viewscreen before taking a potshot at a random enemy, settling on War Shrike 1. Watching with disgust as none of the other ships could plant a shot on the Darksword 1, Ridge manuevers his direction towards the Shrike. That many ships should be able to handle the Darksword, eventually. However, it wouldn't do any good to shoot down one to have even more ready and unscathed. Shifting the thrust forward, the Flight Officer makes his way towards the War Shrike and readies his equipment to fire. As the Shrike comes closer into his sights, Ridge feels the familiar adrenaline rush aquainted with battle. It was one he had gotten to know well, and rather than making him more nervous, Ridge embraced it, letting it pump through his veins with a fiery rush. His breathing becoming slightly heavier, the Shrike is closer to his sights. 'Wait for it, Ridge, just wait for it,' he thinks to himself. As the right moment appears, Ridge pulls the trigger, letting off a small set of lasers at the Shrike. Cringing as another missile pummels into her fellow Falcon's ship, Andra bites her lip as she racks her mind for what to do next. She's hardly trained, she reminds herself, though she'd better start proving that she can do something, at least - right? Her resolve clear, and her focus on her piloting again, she veers to the side, aiming for the same ship. "Come on, come on, let's get a hit here..." she mutters as she squeezes the trigger hard and hopes to...the Force, she supposes, that something good will happen. "Sithspit!" Kieran curses yet again, as another missle from the damnable Scimitar finds his ship. Shields down, hull damaged, sensors off line.. one, maybe two more hits and he would be done for. He looks at his targeting monitor, praying for some kind a miracle. Static answered him. He pounds his console in a mixture of frustration and adrenaline-induced terror. His head flicks back and forth, trying to get a glimpse of the enemy Scimitar. There! He pulls his stick back, and the damaged A-wing jerks as it turns toward the enemy ship. He attempts to line the dark craft up in his reticle manually, without the aid of his targeting scanners. He mutters to himself, 'Dammit, Tain, you couldn't even hit him with your scanners, and now you're trying to hit hjim without them?' Nevertheless, he did his best to line up the other craft and with a sudden twitch of his finger squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of orange laser blasts towards the Scimitar. Han turns his head in time to see another pair of missiles connect with a member of Falcon squadron. Granted that they were not his squadron mates, nor did he know any of them personally, they were out fighting, their beliefs in the New Republic the same as his. He cringes as he watches the shields flicker under the stress and give out, the ship taking what could only be assumed to be heavy damage. Swinging wide, the Falcon falls behind the Scimitar again, Kreldin being the pilot that he had hand picked from the beginning of the clash. Waiting for a moment as he better prepares his shot, Han looks to Chewie quickly before firing off another set of concussion missiles, a grin spreading acrossed his face as they part from the forward mandible of the ship, shrieking through space towards the Imperial ship. That got him! The missile once again found its mark, impacting against the damaged A-wing's aft hull. All too easy. Sort of. He was still under heavy attack, not to mention the freakin' Millenium Falcon was out there. If its captain was as any good as he was eleven or so years ago, then he was in for a fun night for sure. His craft was still in the green, and his weapons still active. Contrary to Rodriga, Kreldin was an old man, or just about near that age. At fifty-four, he was a veteran of two wars and numerous conflicts. And it showed in his flying; Kreldin was clearly leading the Imperials tonight. "Selcan, good to see you again- least I know not all of our pilots are green. Let's teach them a lesson, shall we?" Falcon 8 had been his first target of the battle; however, upon missing, he switched targets and engaged Falcon 3. Both craft had now teamed up against him, with help from the vile Millenium Falcon, which provided some mild discomfort in Danik. Red laser blasts pierced through the blackness of space all around his Scimitar, but Kreldin kept his craft steady, his target never leaving his scopes even as it turned about and attacked him. The attack was futile, however; the laser blasts missed, and it only served to line up the A-wing in Kreldin's targeting computer. One, two, three - fire! Then wham, another missile from his port side, this time from the Falcon. The missile went too high, however, and was trashed; Danik's, however, continued through space towards its target... The klaxons of the hangar bay have been going off for some minutes now, urging all available pilots to suit up and engage in the fight with the A-Wings. Lieutenant Commander Grymm Selcan struggles to find out which TIE fighter he had been reassigned to so that he could hurry up and get a piece of the action. He finds one of his previous old birds, War Shrike 1, and quickly hops into the fighter to begin launching procedures. Finding the fighting taking place not far from the Conqueror, Grymm is almost surprised while departing from the ship as a volley of lasers come hurling towards his Interceptor. "Woah now, you didn't tell me it was this hot!" he barks across the command frequency. Yanking hard on the flight stick, the lasers pass by and he quickly realigns the fighter on course to the nearest A-Wing. The TIE's heads-up-display begin to beep and glow red as a target lock is confirmed on Falcon 8, and with a gentle squeeze of the trigger, a barrage of hot green death is sent forth towards it. From SF-4239 over frequency 1312.70: "Falcon 3\, RTB. Repeat\, Falcon 3 return to base!" "Dammit." Rodriga curses a bit more profusely for a few seconds as he watches the sparks fly from Falcon 3, then pauses to consider. He nods. "Dammit." The Captain rolls a bit to starboard and pulls back on his stick, trying to ease his way unnoticed onto this torp-tossing Darksword's tail. Unfortunately, he miscalculates and ends up making a very near pass. Or... no, not a miscalculation. That flying is very recognizable. Rodriga's eyes light up, a fiery passion in his eyes as time slows down to a crawl. He stares at the metallic demon before him, the port side of an arrogant, destructive beast with whom Mora has a personal score to settle. This man, this- thing, this pawn of a machine so terrible and self-serving that even the normally effusive Rodriga can't find the words, this monster who has taken so many of Mora's crew from him, from their families, from the Universe, the enabler, the face on an enemy that until Mora's first battle was merely a name... The first battle. The convoy run. The shuttle that got away, the suicide run against this very man's ship, the TIE pilot, Tynan, who killed Mora's wingmate, the abort orders from Corak's own mouth, and now time stands still and Mora has his shot, filled with a rage he had thought himself incapable of, wanting nothing more than to tear this man in two, to give him back tenfold the pain he has caused to each of the thousands of innocents whose known existences he has brought to an abrupt halt, whose friends he has murdered, whose lives he has shattered. The war is an abstract, something different to each soldier, and to Rodriga, it is Kreldin, and this, a chance encounter during a milk-run-turned-recon-flight, one he shouldn't even be on but wanted to visit a friend, this has put him within reach of that goal. Mora's eyes narrow, his teeth clenched, throat lumping with disgust. He pulls his trigger like the sweet, promising pin of a vendor, his palate whet as a child before his treat, the taste of revenge only seconds away. And slowly, surely, the rage lets itself out, a rhythmic murmer turning to speech and then to shouts, more with every blast from the turbolasers in agony for hundreds of lost friends, lost comrades- a lost love. "Ten thousand innocent men, three planets, my homeworld, my family, all gone... you took from me everything I knew, everything I gave a damn about, and now here you are, you vile piece of- you killed Ebony. She was two weeks out of training, all she ever wanted, and you cut her down like a prize for the party, you disgusting, disturbed little man- YOU KILLED EBONY, YOU BASTARD!" Silently, in the cockpit of this foreign-borrowed ship, where he knows he is invisible, the Corellian lets go of his trigger and stares once more at his homeworld, at the mother and sister he may never see again, at the grave of a love he couldn't save, and weeps. Andra's miss distracts her more than she'd like to admit, and she doesn't notice the attack from the new ship. "What, you're telling me there's another ship?" she exclaims, cursing more under her breath as she veers her ship off to the right - but not hard or fast enough, it seems, as the missle crashes into her shield, sending her headfirst into the screen before her seatbelt stops her with with a crude jerk a short distance away from her ship's computer screen and sends her flying back into the (relative) safety of the ship. "Fine," she muttered, taking her chances again with the new ship as she moves into position and pulls the trigger hard. Yet again, his laser blasts zip harmlessly past the Imperial fighter. And again, the Scimitar wheels around to face him with surprising agility. And finally, once again, another missle streaks from the Scimitar and slams into his craft. As his small ship pitches to the side with a sickening twist, Kieran suddenly feels a jab of icy-hot pain in his left arm. He looks down to see a twisted piece of knife-shaped shrapnel sticking out of his limb, with blood spattered on the metal and on the material of his flightsuit around the wound. Fixated on the wound with an almost surreal sense of detached horror, he is jerked back to awareness with the sound of a new klaxon blaring in his ears - the eject warning. He coughs on the smoke billowing from his wrecked consoles, wincing from the pain in his lungs and his arm as he turns his ship in a direction leading away from the battle zone. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he looks down at the melted, tangled mess of metal that had been his main controls, and with a new twinge of pain in his wounded appendage, he slowly begins to plot an escape course in what remains of his navicomputer. He looks back over his shoulder and feels a new twinge of pain - one in his mind. He knows that he is leaving his comrades behind... but, as spots begin to appear in his vision, and he looks down at the expanding dark red stain covering his left sleeve, he realizes in his current state he's not much use to them.. As he watches the remaining ships trading fire, he hopes they'll understand... should they survive. "Nice shot, Selcan," Kreldin said into the radio to his old comrade as Grymm pulled off a hit on that one ship he was targetting earlier. He smirked as he watched the A-wing he had been pummeling once again fall victim to his attack. The A-wing was pretty beat up - it wouldn't last much longer, for sure. Kreldin would make sure of it. "Shrike 2, Shrike 3, pull in - distract my target. It's my kill, so don't get any ideas," Kreldin said, loading up another missile and preparing for the final blow. However, before that final blow could be delivered, a single Mantaray entered the fray and immediately engaged Kreldin. He could hear some voices over the radio, coming in from that very craft, the voice filled with rage. Apparently this man had a score to settle with him. Well, who didn't? Danik has killed nearly eighty pilots in space combat, several hundred people in ground-related operations, and, of course, that one black-stain on his record, the Chandrilian Massacare. So it wasn't unusual that someone had something against him. The Mantaray opened fire, and Danik reacted immediately, rolling starboard and avoiding the incoming laser fire. This pilot was different than the ones he had been facing so far. He wasn't green. Maybe flying without his flight suit was a bad idea after all. The Mantaray was next. He would kill the pilot and send him to meet his so-called Ebony. But, first, he had a little something to finish with Falcon 3. Falcon 3 was fleeing from the combat zone; Danik knew this. He wouldn't let it. "Enemy craft, this is Danik Kreldin. Only now do you regret fighting against the Empire. You'll have time to grieve over it in hell, young one," Kreldin said, and fired off his final shot at the fleeing Falcon 3. Would it hit, would it miss? Would this pilot be spared by good fortune? Or join the millions that have already perished. Grymm knew that his shots were going to make contact as soon as they left the barrels. "Thank you, Kreldin. I believe we have this one in the bag." He slams forward on his thrusters and kicks a right roll, trying to get on the tail of the A-Wing he had previously shot at. He works the flight yoke instinctively, almost as if it is another limb on his body. Flying the Interceptor becomes a secondary part of his mind, while he primarily concentrates on tactics to produce a shot opportunity on Falcon 8. This proves easier than expected, as he points out over the hailing frequencies, "Oh, come on. You're throwing rookies at us? I feel disrespected. I really do." The Lieutenant Commander is momentarily distracted as Danik's missiles impact on the fledgling A-Wing. He regains concentration when his own target tries to return fire on him, and an snap-roll ensues to dodge them. Another target lock beeps as he gains quickly on Falcon 8 and he lets loose a salvo. Rodriga swears even more profusely as Falcon 3 goes down, breaking off- unwillingly- from his pursuit of Kreldin. "Cover me," he calls, and slows down dangerously as he approaches the crippled A-Wing, muttering softly to himself. "Don't eject, don't eject, don't eject, don't eject... we lose too many as it is, don't eject..." and, thank the Force, the Cadet doesn't eject. Slowly, so slowly Mora is worried about getting hulled before he gets hold of the other pilot, he begins to push the Manta's cockpit toward the A-Wing's. Lowering the shields, the Corellian begins to pray softly... It was becoming harder and harder for Kieran to concentrate, much less keep his eyes open. His head lolled over to his left, and he was able to see the dull red bloodstain covering most of his left sleeve. His eyes opened widely, and he inhaled sharply in shock... only to erupt in a coughing fit as he breathed in a cloud of acrid smoke. In the very back of his mind, a voice cut through the fog to say, 'If you eject, you can switch to your breather unit and get fresh air... Yes. Need.... fresh air..' His trembling hand moved toward the eject switch, but suddenly stopped as he saw a shadow block out the light over his ship. He looked up with a dull expression and saw a ship hovering over his, its hatch opened. Staring in wonder, he sat stupidly several seconds before realizing what he had to do. He opened his own ship up and clumsily reached for the other ship's hatch. "Drek." The ship shudders as a laser, or a missile, or something makes contact with the Manta's hull. 82 integrity. 66. What an appropriate number. A hiss indicates a successful dock and Mora opens his hatch. "In. Hurry." Her concentration present again, Achaira dodges the incoming projectile narrowly, thanking her lucky stars that she's so used do being...well - reckless - as she moves back into position to fight, only barely watching the other Falcons out of the corner of her eye. "All right, all right," she begins to mutter, but cuts off abruptly. She can only watch in horror as one of her fellow Falcons is put out of battle - is the pilot okay, but no time to check - before she readies her own shot, noting the other Falcon's attempts. Whether it worked or not, she'd have to go in next to take her turn. And so, she moves into position and fires once more. There it went. The A-wing was knocked out for good, raising Kreldin's kill score by one more. Strangely, however, the aging Imperial felt...empty inside. Not excitement, or glee, but just a void. What was all this for? Shaking his head, telling himself not to worry about it, Kreldin flew by the wreckage of the A-wing, only to notice it was not completely destroyed..and life signs read the pilot was still alive. Frowning, Kreldin made one pass, only to see that damnable Mantaray moving in to rescue the pilot. "Selcan, form up on me. We'll knock out this Mantaray and get them both. Two birds with one stone!" The ship was a sitting duck while the pilot transferred from the A-wing to the Mantaray. And Danik wasted no time. One, two, three, a missile was launched, followed by another, both complemented by laser fire from Grymm. The blasts struck against the Mantaray, causing some damage, but not enough to cripple or destroy it. Rather annoyed by this turn of events, Kreldin elected to give up on it - they would live. He watched as the damaged Mantaray limped off towards freedom, as his field of view was soon covered by the 'Conqueror,' the Imperator Mark II-class Star Destroyer as it salvaged the crippled A-wing into its massive hangar bay. There were still a few fighters to mop up. One being Falcon 8, which decided to foolishly interrupt Kreldin by attacking him; that was it, he had enough of that pilot. Turning his craft around to engage Falcon 8, Kreldin locked-on and opened fire. Grymm pulled away hard from his target as he saw the Mantaray moving in to make a rescue attempt on the crippled A-wing. Hearing Danik's request over the radio, he quickly sped up to meet with the Scimitar and take turns firing on the Mantaray. "What's this? A sitting duck? Are they trying to get killed?" he asked with a puzzled tone in his voice over the radio. Seeing the Mantaray put it's shields back up, he decided that returning to the apparent greener pilot in Falcon 8 would be the wiser choice. Following close by Kreldin's side, his Interceptor fires a salvo of lasers towards the A-wing. In good spirits again from her two dodges, Andra's eyes flicker over to the other Falcon, nodding slightly. One pilot down, and the odds hardly even. "Falcon 8, pulling out," she says, checking her computer and the positions of the other ships quickly before she swings a hard right and accelerates as fast as she can - sparing the occasional backward glance, of course. One finger slips to her toolbelt to brush the familiar cool metal of her beloved wrench - and then she shakes her head clear. Live and let live, right? An Old Score with Solo